"Michael!" cried his mother.
"Who are you, my good woman?"
"Who am I? Dost thou no longer know thy mother?"
"You are mistaken; a resemblance deceives you."
Marfa went up to him, and looking straight into his eyes, said, "Art thou not the son of Peter and Marfa Strogoff?"
Michael would have given his life to have locked his mother in his arms. But if he yielded now, it was all over with him, with her, with his mission, with his oath! Completely master of himself, he closed his eyes that he might not see the inexpressible anguish of his mother.
"I do not know, in truth, what it is you say, my good woman."
"Michael!"
"My name is not Michael. I never was your son! I am Nicholas Horparoff, a merchant of Irkutsk," and suddenly he left the room, while for the last time the words echoed in his ears.
"My son! My son!"